


P.S. Please Come Back

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Depression, Letters, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John writes letters to Sherlock, once a year, on the anniversary of the jump from St. Barts. The Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	P.S. Please Come Back

Dear Sherlock,

It’s been a year, precisely a year. And I’m sat here, the spot where I watched you die. I’m going to leave this letter here, for you to read. You know, wherever you are, the least you can do is read my letter.

They said it would sink in. The talked about the five stages of grief, but it never feels like you’re gone. Maybe it’s because of the permanent part of my soul that you’ve taken up isn’t empty. There’s some kind of presence there, and although I’m not a religious man, not spiritual in the slightest, I know that you’re there. I suppose that’s why I decided to write this. There’d be no point if you were really gone. You’d have better things to do, up there.

I’m not saying I don’t know that you’re dead. That’s the fifth stage: acceptance. They think I’ve reached that, and I believe them. But you’re still here, with me. Watching over me, or something.

No one knows I’m here. They think I’m grief-stricken (which I am, I guess) curled up in bed (which I’m not) crying (not yet). Mrs Hudson said she’d leave me to myself today. I’m grateful for that. Molly called me earlier. She always sounds so guilty, even though it’s not her fault. That just makes me feel worse.

I keep seeing it today, every time I close my eyes. I even dreamt about it. Your body hitting the pavement, all that blood. In my dream, Moriarty was laughing. I can still remember every detail of his face, just as I can remember every aspect of yours. Some things are imprinted on your memory forever, I think. But seeing it is worse. I believe that I’d rather forget, although everyone assures me that I wouldn’t. Shouldn’t. What do they know? Have they ever lost anyone so important, so inescapable? You were the main part of my life.

Numbness. Sometimes, there’s a break in the agony, and I feel numb instead. It happens around once or twice every month, a day where I just go through it on autopilot, a day I can barely remember the next morning. Most days, though, it feels like I’m being ripped apart, like my body is being opened from the inside out.

I should have gone to your grave, but it didn’t feel right. You are not there. You are here, at the bottom of St Bart’s. They’ve removed the bloodstain but it’s still there.

I’m not angry with you. I thought I’d better say that, because I can understand why you might think that I am. But I understand your reasons. Everything you’d worked for had gone. I might’ve, if I didn’t have you. But that’s the difference between us, I suppose. I would have stayed for you, but you didn’t stay for me. I don’t blame you. I’m not worth staying for.

I want you to know that you were my best friend, even if I wasn’t yours.

From,

John.

P.S. Please come back.

 

Dear Sherlock,

I can only bring myself to write once a year. On the anniversary of your death. Mycroft knows I’m here, I think, at the building you jumped from. I can feel someone watching me. It’s a Holmes stare.

Am I crazy? Sometimes I feel like I am. I feel eyes on me near-constantly. I say it’s Mycroft, but I know it’s you. I’m imagining that you’re watching down on me, and it…well, it sucks. But that was always you, wasn’t it? Never leaving me alone (unless you were sulking. But even then you pestered me.). Now I’m alone, and I hate it. My therapist—another stupid bloody therapist, and redundant, senseless diagnoses—says that it’s my way of dealing with the grief. Is it supposed to go on for this long?

Here I am, asking you all these questions, when you’re the last person who can claim to be in touch with their emotions. And…you can’t answer.

Not even Lestrade calls anymore. I get angry so quickly, I’m so on edge. Either that, or I break down completely. So there you have it. You never wanted me to have any other friends, or any girlfriends (of course you remembered their names, you arrogant bastard) and now you’ve got your wish.

So I realized something, when I was sleeping in your bed the other night. I’ve taken to doing that. Not like it smells of you anymore, but it’s still comforting. I have to wait, though, until Mrs Hudson falls asleep, because she thinks it’s unhealthy, this obsession. If only she knew. Besides, it’s not like she’s removed the bed. It’s just in there, waiting for me. Your bedroom is downstairs anyway. It’s convenient. My leg’s gone bad again, so it’s better. For my health. (So I tell myself.)

Anyway. I realized that I loved you. And I knew that already, but not in the way I know now. Oh God, how many times did I tell everyone I wasn’t gay? Ironic. I’m figuring out all this interesting shit now that you’re dead. And God how I loved you. I loved the way your eyes looked in the morning (those days you actually slept, that is): dazed and not-quite-there, and you looked so innocent. I loved the way you were almost dependent on me (for cooking, cleaning…was I really that much of a housewife?) but you never admitted to it. I loved watching you shout at the telly. I loved introducing you to board games (especially Monopoly). So many little things, but I loved them all. Even how irritating you were, all the time. I loved all of it.

I really hope you’re reading this.

I really hope there’s somewhere up there because you can’t—you can’t be gone. I once said that you’d outlive God trying to have the last word. I expect to be able to hold you to that, okay?

There are so many arguments I want to finish. We always stopped in the middle, do you remember? About who would get to keep their music collection, because we only had one shelf for the CDs. And all you had were violin albums. I listened to enough of that already, what with you playing until three in the morning. But you burned all of mine. So.

Love,

John.

P.S. Please come back.

 

Dear Sherlock,

I got fired. Three years on, huh, and I’m still this much of a mess. Thanks for that. I guess it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask me to fall in love with you.

How did being married to your work end up, by the way? Is it crying over you now? Yeah. Right, I’m jealous of your job now. Great going. And here they said that I was getting better, even though we both know that I’m not.

You’re in my dreams more regularly now. I can almost feel your touch. It’s still familiar, even after all this time.

But I’m running out of things to write. Depression, anger, loneliness, love… You’ve heard it all before. So now I’m repeating myself. I love—


End file.
